


still be on my feet

by westhouse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: M!Yen, M/M, No plot just mush, Rich Gay Yen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 05:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16758502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westhouse/pseuds/westhouse
Summary: Geralt has a close call and Yennefer fusses over him reluctantly. For @cabwaylingo





	still be on my feet

**Author's Note:**

> this truly is not a wonderful fill for the prompt but also i have trouble not writing them just overwhelmingly sweet. also richgayyen.

The man with the crossbow is lying in the dirt separated neatly into bits: legs, torso, arms, head.  _ Geralt _ is lying face-up in the grass, blood staining his hair.

It was a lucky shot, or about half of one—as far as Yennefer can tell, the bolt only grazed him, but the force of it must have been what knocked him out. It is nevertheless worrying that he remained unconscious for the entirety of the ten minutes it took for Yen to… defile a corpse, he supposes. With the dust cleared, what he’s done does seem mildly unnecessary. The things one does for—well, not for love.

He kneels down beside him now, snapping out a short, “Geralt,” which sounds more warning than concerned. There’s another thing he should work on. But the witcher doesn’t stir, instead looking ever the more vacant. This is not a good sign, and while Yen knows this, he lacks the proper scope to act on it at the moment. It’s easier to instead shake him slightly and repeat, “ _ Geralt. _ ” 

When he seems to stir a few seconds later, Geralt immediately tries to get to his feet. As a result, he vomits into the grass for what seems like entirely too long.

* * *

Yen watches him from several feet away, violet eyes half hesitance and half something else he doesn’t feel like talking about. The room is dark—Vesemir said the room  _ should _ be dark, that it would keep Geralt from being in worse pain—and the darkness of it makes him seem different, softer or fading. Yen walked him, stumbling, back to Kaer Morhen, where Vesemir tutted at him and gave Geralt some kind of remedy that he had warned would render him exhausted for a time. He’d said it would stop any long-term damage, and had then kept away to look after the two from a distance.

Still, he wasn’t warned not to touch him, and he is quick to bore even when consumed with worry. Earlier he drew water in case Geralt woke, and now he decides to set some of it aside to wet a cloth and clean his wound. He doesn’t bother walking quietly, nor trying not to brush up against him at his bedside. As suspected, the cut isn’t deep; he sighs anyway and does his best not to start early on coming up with terrible things to say to Geralt when he stirs. It’s easiest to lash out when this sort of thing happens, easiest to convert the concern into disdain… and he always winds up feeling horrid for it.

It’s hard to be upset with how peaceful the witcher looks in his sleep, though. No wonder they call him the White Wolf—besides the obvious, he is in many ways the same as his namesake. Peaceful and almost harmless in sleep, but still with the harsh, feral slant to his face that he has always had, he looks not exactly  _ different _ but unusual. Yen doesn’t know sometimes how he’s meant to work through the inherent shock of seeing him sometimes, the difficult he has defining what it means that Geralt could truly be someone who exists and shares the world with him.

What an utterly pathetic thing to think, Yen decides, and kisses his temple. He’s wiping the gauze one final time across the cut before he leaves him be when the witcher’s breathing changes, and he’s turning slightly away from the contact, scrunching his eyes shut. This seems to be the process with Geralt: complain about being awake and then wake up anyway. He hits the second step fairly quickly when he lets his eyes open and squints up blearily for a moment. “Yen,” he murmurs, voice thin and without its usual bitter confidence. Yennefer decides he sort of likes Geralt when he’s recovering from an injury, in the space between, where he’s not yet well enough to get irritable and restless.

“Took you long enough,” he says, unsure why he says it but mostly just trying to hold up a sense of normality.

For his part, Geralt seems wholly unamused by that—and still quite put off, which is fair to some extent or another. “We’re…” He groans, one hand rising vaguely toward his head as if he just realised his injury. “Back at Kaer Morhen.” The neutrality in his tone says he’s not sure why that is or whether he’s pleased about it. 

There is a brief pause between them during which Yen weighs his words, and then finally he settles on simply saying, “You were shot in the head. The bolt only grazed you, but you’re lucky you’re not spread evenly across a field right now.” To work against the harshness of his tone, he lays his hand against Geralt’s head again.

Geralt leans in, of course, somehow still managing to be sickeningly earnest and sweet even when confused and hurt. He presses himself against Yen’s fingers and asks, “You saved my life, then?” It’s sort of a stupid question, which is precisely why he asks it. There’s nothing between them he can’t seem to solve with a stupid question and a kiss. Which is, perhaps, Yen’s most and least favourite thing about him.

“You didn’t deserve it,” Yen replies with a smile.

“No,” snorts Geralt, sitting up just enough to take Yen’s hand and press it to his lips. “Guess I didn’t.”


End file.
